


into the aryllverse

by mochibun



Category: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker
Genre: Action/Adventure, Agriculture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, Chaos Ensues, Economics, Emotional Constipation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hyrulean Economics, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Lost is BoTW!Aryll, Protective Siblings, Scope is WW!Aryll, Siblings, and you should be rightfully terrified., aryllverse, eventually, in a few chapters you're going to understand what 'chickaloo legumes' are, in which it's not only the lu boys having fun, it's legend of zelda what do you expect of me, of course this was going to show up in my tag list, or: the (canonical) aryll's get thrown together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22652236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochibun/pseuds/mochibun
Summary: Aryll doesn't expect to wake up in the first place after getting ambushed by lizalfos. She just wants to mourn her dead brother in peace.Apparently, the Goddess Hylia has other plans. Now she's adventuring across time and space with some other incarnation of herself. But hey, if it means seeing her dead brother again, she's willing to do anything.
Relationships: Aryll & Link (Legend of Zelda), Malon (Legend of Zelda)/Time (Linked Universe), Scope & Lost
Comments: 60
Kudos: 198





	1. names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aryll picks out a name.

Aryll wakes up, which is a pleasant surprise, because she thought she’d be dead when the lizalfos had knocked her into the water. She remembers being almost scared—like fear could climb up her throat, but didn’t.

(Because why should she be scared when there is nothing for her to be scared of? To be scared _for?)_

Everything hurts, though. Her hair’s a mess, and she scrapes her fingers through it in a half-assed attempt to get the tangles out. Hopefully, her headband didn’t break, and relief settles like a balm for her bruises when she touches the cool and soft material of it. 

It used to be stained black, but then they found him—the _corpse_ of him—so a Champions Blue scarf has been folded around it, even if Aryll isn’t religious like Aunt Lon and Father and him were. Well. Not anymore, she isn’t.

But yes. Lizalfos. Nasty little things, especially the electric ones near Zora’s Domain. She hopes Sidon can forgive her for being late. 

And then Aryll gets up, and realizes that _oh._ She... might be a little later than intended. 

A vast expanse of gold stretches out before her, washed out and glittering. Beyond it lies a sea, bigger than East Reservoir Lake, where Vah Ruta storms. Bigger than Necluda Sea, where she begged Mama to take her for her birthday once upon a time.

Scratch that. She hopes Sidon doesn’t worry, because she doesn’t think she’ll be able to go back to Zora’s Domain quite yet. She also hopes Sidon won’t think she died somewhere. That would suck.

And then a face pops in front of her. “ARE YOU OKAY,” it shrieks, and then both of them scream.

//

After a very long time screaming and an even longer time pointing fingers at each other, because what the hell, apparently both of them are named Aryll? Other Aryll (who’s like, _nine,_ an absolute toddler) proudly proclaims that she’s on Outset Island.

This is a problem.

As far as Aryll knows, there’s no Outset Island off of Hyrule, and sure, the ancient land of Ordon wasn’t part of Hyrule proper but Outset Island doesn’t even _exist._ Maybe there’s a couple of legends of some island in the sea, but she’s sure the island was called Outskirt or Outreach. Something like that, anyway.

So. She’s in uncharted land in Hyrule. Or, like, maybe not even Hyrule, and what the hell, this might as well happen. Aryll doesn’t even have a home to go back to, beyond visiting Zora’s Domain when Seggin and Muzu don’t give her dirty looks because of her (dead) brother; hell, when someone occasionally takes pity on the thirteen year old girl traveling across all of Hyrule proper.

Not many people are willing to give hospitality freely given. The Calamity (which, everyone reminds her, her brother and the princess and the champions failed to seal away) will do that to you. So Outset Island is kind of nice, actually.

It is especially nice when Other Aryll (until they figure out proper names, she’ll stick with calling her Kid in her head) tugs her into her home. Her grandmother, an affectionate old woman, proceeds to worry over them both, and distantly Aryll is aware that she probably looks like a drowned rat. “Call me gran-gran, dearie,” she says, then to Kid, “go wash up, I’m making my special soup tonight.”

“SOUP NIGHT,” Kid shrieks in delight, then turns on her heel and bolts outside, purple skull dress billowing in the wind behind her. Aryll giggles, despite herself.

The Calamity taught Aryll to survive. It taught her pain and loss, because her entire _damn family_ died to that thing and her princess is gone too. And yet something about here makes her feel safe, safer than she’s been in a long time. She undoes her gloves, setting them aside in her backpack, kicks off her boots and watches Grandma cook.

It’s a little like how Brother used to cook, no measurements and all instinct, but where Grandma hums, Link’s a capoeira in his hips; where Grandma is tidy, it’s not Aunt Lon and Link’s rapidfire back and forth. A lot of things about Kid’s Grandma—well, they’re something Aryll’s family is not. She doesn’t even know why she’s comparing them.

So she squeezes her fists. Smiles. Says, “Brother and Aunt Lon call me a disaster in the kitchen, but do you need any help, I think I’ve improved at least since then,” and Grandma beckons her over to stir the pot.

It’s nice, domestic in a way her life hasn’t been since three years ago. Aryll thinks that maybe she could grow used to this.

//

The soup is delicious. It fills her belly, feels warm like a hug and a soft blanket. Things Aryll hasn’t had in a long time. Whatever. They say the ground is good for your back, anyways, so she’s sure she’s not really missing out. That night, Grandma offers her a bed and despite her own protestations, in the end, she has no choice.

(She doesn’t get much sleep that night—sleeping in a bed is something she hasn’t done in a long time. And, well—compared to the ground, her own bed is an unknown.)

The next morning, after breakfast, Kid tugs on her wrist, bouncy blond hair tied back into pigtails even though a lot of it seems to escape her. Sun bleached. Curls around her chin, bobbing one-two one-two as she skips to her destination. “We’re going to my lookout,” she informs Aryll primly, in that way all kids do. Aryll stumbles along, letting herself get pulled.

Kid makes her climb the lookout. Aryll leaps up the rungs two at a time. And then she reaches the top, and she thinks she stops breathing.

Blue stretches out before her. Green like rupees dot the landscape. Before her, the world is unending, reaching and stretching as if to meet the horizon line. Seagulls swoop above her.

Kid says, “Did I ever tell you about big brother?” Aryll startles at that, and realizes somewhere in her brain that she was probably given his bed.

“No,” she says finally, “you didn’t.”

Kid stands on her tiptoes, fingers holding onto the telescope that rests on her hip. She peers over the edge of the lookout. “You remind me of him. You’re both sad.”

 _What,_ Aryll thinks flatly. She isn’t wrong, though, but Aryll’s pretty sure your entire family dying to some pig in a castle and your homeland falling into ruins constitutes as a pretty good reason to be sad.

“Sad,” Kid repeats, “you both look like you want to be elsewhere. I think, for brother, he wants to be out there,” waving a sweeping arm to the blue sky and ocean. “But he gets too close to see the whole wide world.”

Kid offers her the telescope. “I think,” she says, “you can see the entire world from Outset. Sometimes, Big Brother has to be reminded that, too—that this is what he’s out adventuring for.”

Aryll takes the telescope with numb fingers. Somehow, her hands already know what to do, lifting up the telescope and seeing visions of blue-green dancing off the seabed floor. “Thank you,” she finally manages.

“You are very welcome,” Kid responds. They sit there in a quiet reprieve like that for the rest of the day.

//

  
  
  


Somehow, it falls into a routine, where Aryll wakes up in Kid’s brother’s bed (what’s his name, anyways?) and follows Kid dutifully, making sure she’s not getting in trouble. Too much trouble. Grandma and Kid are so nice it almost hurts. So in turn, she sweeps the patio, helps Grandma with cooking, and runs errands around the island. It’s the least she can do, she figures. Nothing changes for two weeks.

Then one day, something changes.

Aryll is on Kid’s Lookout when it happens, when Kid gives a squeak and latches the telescope onto her hip. “Tetra’s here!” she says, then scurries down to the port. Aryll follows, every dutiful, just like her older (dead) brother.

Tetra, as it turns out, is a pirate princess with a shock of blonde hair. She looks like she could crush the world beneath her heel and the world would thank her for it. “Well, if it isn’t the pipsqueak,” she calls, and Kid stumbles through the sand to latch onto Tetra like an octopus.

Aryll sticks awkwardly behind. The pirates look cool, at the least, and she offers a hesitant thumbs up when one of them shows off his muscles to Kid. It’s cool. Her and the pirates are cool, somehow.

(She does look up briefly enough to see Tetra give her a death stare—the kind of which says, _hurt her and I will fucking kill you,_ so. It’s not _too_ bad. She thinks she even channeled the same stare back when Brother curled up in bed in an episode set off by the princess.)

Tetra and Kid go off somewhere. Aryll heads back to Grandma’s house; Grandma is taking a nap, so Aryll goes to clean the house. Beat the rugs. Dust the floors. Household chores like that.

She’s wiping away the dust from the ornaments on the wall when her eyes land on a picture. It’s a family, a boy and a girl and their caretaker, and with a start, Aryll realizes that this must be Kid’s big brother. He’s got the same eyes and grin, the same shock of yellow hair. They’re siblings in every way possible.

It hurts to look at, for some reason (she knows _exactly_ why it hurts) so she quickly cleans that one and moves on. The sun travels overhead in an arc, finally beginning its slow descent on the island.

Then there’s a scream. _“Monsters,”_ someone shrieks, familiar. Girlish and young. _Kid._ “ _monsters on the beach!”_

Aryll curses.

//

There’s a sort of dizzy panic in her that calms when she buckles her leather chestguard on, sliding her fingers through her gloves and grasping the familiar weight of her sword again. Then Aryll is running, out the door and down the beach, two steps at a time.

“ _KID,”_ she yells, “ _HANG ON.”_

Aryll takes a running start. She leaps over the rocky outcrop on the beach, tumbling onto the sand, and then she swings. _There!_

The bokoblin gives a dying scream, attracting its companions. Aryll shoves Kid down behind her, and then leaps forward. Thrusts her sword. Stabs. Kicks. Thinks she might’ve even thrown a punch, and then she’s reeling from the knobby elbows of a bokoblin. _Whoosh._ Her sword lands in the sand.

 _Crunch._ Aryll wheezes. Falls down like a marionette with the strings cut. Then Kid is there, battle cry leaving her mouth, picking up and swinging Aryll’s sword with an intense ferocity.

Gone. The bokoblins dissolve into smoke and mirrors. Aryll gives one last cough. “Thanks,” she rasps, feeling guilty. _You could have gotten killed,_ she chides herself, _you have to be there when he wakes up, remember?_

“Sorry,” Kid says primly, eyes wide. She holds Aryll’s sword in her fingers and Aryll takes it, putting it back in its sheath. “Aryll?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s normal.”

Slowly, Aryll turns around. No, that’s not normal. It’s not normal at all.

Purple portals are definitely, decisively, _very much_ not normal at _all._

”Me either,” she says, and it sounds faint even to her own ears.

Then, coming down the stairs from her house is Grandma, bag in her hands. She looks solemn, and Kid’s eyes tear up. _What?_

“You know,” Grandma says, “you and your brother are so similar.” A weak smile. “I’ll be waiting here. I know my memory is not very good, but—I know this is important.”

Kid gives a warbly little noise, and then runs to Grandma, tackling her into a hug. She’s full on crying, now.

“I’ll take care of the seagulls,” Grandma continues, “I know this is something you need to do, you and Aryll.”

“Other me,” Kid says, sniffling. Aryll awkwardly shuffles forth to give a hesitant shoulder pat, before resting her hand on Kid’s shoulder. For some reason, she leans into it.

“I don’t get this,” Kid says. Grandma gives a laugh, something full bellied and a little teary eyed but nonetheless happy.

“Oh, to be young again,” she says, fitting the pack onto Kid’s shoulders, “you know your brother. I think that portal’s a sign that he’s in trouble, you know?” She presses her forehead to Kid’s. “And I know the kind of young woman I raised. I know she’ll go right into that portal if it means helpin’ out her older brother.”

Kid squeezes Grandma tighter, one last time, and then grabs Aryll’s hand. “I’ll come back, Grandma,” she says, “I promise.”

She smiles. “I know.”

Kid looks up to Aryll from where she’s holding her hand. “Um,” Kid says, and Aryll thinks, _might as well._ She squeezes the other’s hand tight in response and looks to Grandma.

“I’ll keep her safe,” she promises, and only hopes she can keep it.

And then they both dive through the portal, hand in hand.

//

They land on soft grass, and Aryll gives a little wheeze again when she collides with the ground right where the bokoblin elbowed her. Yup, that’s definitely going to bruise. She scans their surroundings—it’s familiar. She knows these woods. She grew up in them, practically, waiting for Brother.

Kakariko Village is only a thirty minute’s walk from here. She picks herself off the ground and hauls Kid up too. “Woah,” Kid says, eyes sparkling. “These are what forests look like…?”

“Yeah,” Aryll says. Kid’s hand is warm in hers. “These are what forests look like.”

“Cool,” Kid breathes, and then tugs her hand. “Okay, let’s go!”

“Not that way.”

“Oh. Uh, that way?”

“...actually, yeah.”

They begin to walk, into the woods, to Kakariko. Aryll pauses halfway when Kid stops. “What’s wrong?” she asks, readying her sword in case if there’s any monsters out there. Aryll’s not the most handy in combat, but she can at least keep her newly made promise unbroken. She hopes.

“No, not that,” Kid chirps. “I was just thinking it gets a little weird calling you other Aryll in my head,” she admits. Then shakes her head. “So let’s come up with nicknames! I want to be… uh…” Kid looks around, like she didn’t plan for a sudden bout of uninspiration. “I know! I’ll be Scope!” She holds her telescope into the air. “Yeah! I’m Scope!”

The newly dubbed Scope looks at Aryll. “What about you?”

Aryll looks around the woods. She thinks of her world, of Hyrule’s great vast emptiness and the life that’s still trying to thrive despite it. Thinks of herself without family, without Aunt Lon and Link, the Hylian Champion, the Hero. Her brother.

“Lost,” she says. “My name’s Lost.”

“Okay then. Lost it is,” Scope says decisively.

The sun is beginning to rise, Lost realizes. It peeks over the horizon, waking up the world. It’s bright. She stares straight into the sunrise.

“Lost it is,” she affirms, and together, they walk into the unknown.


	2. places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aryll goes to Kakariko.

As soon as they enter Kakariko, Lost finds a spear shoved to her throat. “Hi, Darin,” she says wryly. Beside her, Scope gives a little muffled shriek. Which, Lost guesses, is probably a pretty reasonable response.

“How do I know you’re Aryll of Lon Lon Ranch,” the Sheikah guard snarls.

Lost shrugs. “One time, Impa returned with her hair pink because Brother spilled his new recipe on her,” she says. The Sheikah guard pauses, and then lowers his spear.

_ “How,” _ he says, and there’s a sort of grief in his voice. Ragged. “Aryll, we thought you died.”

Lost winces. Scope reaches for her hand, and curls their fingers together. A silent show of support. “Um,” Lost says, because how do you tell someone that you got transported to another world? “I, uh, picked up a kid. Yeah.”

“Hi,” Scope chooses this moment to interject.

Darin’s features twist behind his mask, and then he gives a heave, like his whole body is giving a sigh. “You’ve been gone for months, you realize,” he says. “You better go talk to Impa.”

Oh. Impa.

The realization crashes into Lost like a tidal wave, sending her sinking underneath murky waters. Drowning. Like she can’t breathe.

Impa, who was— _ is,  _ she reminds herself—only four years older than Brother was, who let Lost take shelter in the rebuilding Kakariko when they’d already too many mouths to feed. Impa, who nursed them back to health when Aunt Lon couldn’t. Impa, who made sure Lost was safe when she was growing up in Kakariko’s woods.

Yeah, Impa. Who will be absolutely, one hundred percent pissed at her.

“Oops?” Lost offers, and Darin gives another full bodied sigh before he lets them through Kakariko’s gates.

//

When they walk through the gates, Scope gives Lost this  _ look.  _ Flat eyed. But like all nine and ten year olds do, she launches into questioning, “Why’d they think you were dead?”

“Uh. I didn’t appear in Zora’s domain. Someone probably kept a tab on that. And since, apparently,  _ months _ have passed—“ Lost says, knitting her brows together, because does that mean time passes differently for their Hyrule when they hop into different lands? But anyway, “So since I didn’t return in that time, and Hyrule is so dangerous, for me, anyways, but. Yeah.”

“Ohhh.”

“Yup.”

“Is that why… the guard was so relieved to see you?”

“Yeah.”

“And angry. Because he thought you were hurt when you were really just spending time with me,” Scope says, looking troubled. She gnaws her lip. “I’m sorry.”

Lost shakes her head. She knows she’s not the most adjusted person, a little rough around the edges because that’s how you survive the Calamity, but says, “No. It’s alright. It’s not your fault, it’s no one’s.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she confirms, “and you don’t have to apologize when you don’t need to, y’know?”  _ Maybe we should stop by the goddess statue and pray, _ Lost thinks. She’s not religious, but. Well. Recently, there’s been a couple of signs of Hylia at work. Lost isn’t quite sure if she wants to cheer or cry or do both. Or just not at all.

“...okay,” Scope says, still quiet, but perks up. “Woah, that’s a really pretty statue!”

Well, she supposed, there's the answer to her question.  _ Goddess statue it is, _ she thinks, a little bemused. “Do you know about the goddess Hylia?” Lost says, fixing her tunic to be proper.

“Not really. On Outset we celebrate Din and Farore and Nayru more,” Scope admits.

“...I do, too.” Quietly, Lost bends into the obeisance, knees sinking into the soft earth. Scope just clasps her hands together. They pray.  _ Lady Farore, _ she thinks,  _ keep vigilance over my brother’s soul, because you’re his patron and it became your duty when you passed down your courage. And you failed him, so the least you can do is that. _

Prayers are not vicious. Hers are, and Lost doesn’t particularly care that it’s rude. Letting your chosen hero die is also pretty rude, too, so she figures they’re probably even.

_ Lady Nayru, keep our princess safe.  _ Because as much as Lost hates Princess Zelda for taking Link away from them and then treating him like he’s dirt, she’s heard the stories. She tried all she could, and it still wasn’t enough, and nobody could blame her for that.

It wasn’t her fault.

She sends a quick prayer to Din to keep watch over her mother and Aunt Lon and their desert sisters, and then stands up and brushes the dirt off her knees. Scope hums, done with hers as well. “Why’s the goddess statue so…” she knits her eyebrows together, thinking, “...well dressed?”

Lost shrugs. Scope is talking about the crown of flowers adorning Hylia’s head, the red apron which protects it from rain and hail. “Religion can be comforting for some. They like giving back to Her.”

“Okay.” Scope nods, like she’s making a mental note. “The guard said you should go see Impa, right?”

“Yeah. Which, like, I guess I should, but she’s going to be  _ so—“ _

“So  _ what, _ Aryll,” the woman, the myth, the legend says behind her. Lost gulps and turns around, face to face with Impa. Leader of the Sheikah clan.

“Uh… hi?”

The sigh she gets in response is probably well warranted. Lost takes offense anyway.

//

As soon as Impa has them settled into her house, she fixes Lost with a glare. And a bone crushing hug. “I was so  _ worried,” _ Impa says, voice gruff, and Lost fists the fabric of Impa’s shirt, crumpling it up.

“...I’m sorry for worrying you,” she admits quietly. Thank god Scope is so intelligent, because she’s retreated upstairs to ‘go look at the cool eyes’. Which, well, Lost is sure she’s doing that for real, but she’s probably also aware of how awkward this conversation will be.

“You better be,” Impa says, and then she’s combing her fingers through Lost’s hair, tugging her fingers through tangles. “What happened?”

“I think I would have died,” Lost admits. “I thought I would, actually,” and she’s strangely calm as she says this. In another universe, she would have died, that much is certain. Maybe in another universe, Lost would have died drowning, alone and peaceful, a typhoon raging underneath the surface. Or maybe in another universe, Lost dies with her brother, stuck in stasis for one hundred years. Lost could have drawn the sword, could have defended the princess so Link would not have to bear that burden alone. 

But in this one, Lost lives to see the aftermath, to wake up on a washed out beach in a different world entirely. Lost lives to see Aunt Lon’s broken body and red hair spread out like a fiery halo; Lost turns her childhood home in Hateno into a shelter and abandons everything she loves to the wild.

Impa turns her so Lost looks straight into her eyes, a red so dark they’re almost black in the light. “Don’t say that,” she says, and Lost is reminded that Impa is only nine years older than she is. “Don’t you  _ ever _ say that, Aryll,” Impa repeats, fierce and thick with tears, drawing her into another bone crushing hug.

“I was so scared,” Lost admits, and she doesn’t cry but it’s a close thing, “I remember thinking I was going to drown and I really—oh, Goddesses,  _ Sidon,”  _ she sniffles, “I hope he didn’t blame himself.”

She has to visit him, Lost realizes with a start. Not only because it’s Sidon, and he’s her best friend and the only other member of the ‘our siblings we’re champions and then died fighting the Calamity and if anybody insults them then we might actually go ham’ club. But Lost remembers that there was medicine in her pack, for Dento, the Zora soldier who has a wife and a family. And she didn’t  _ make _ it, but Dento still needs it.

“Aryll. Aryll, look at me,” Impa says, and Lost tears herself away from her thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking.”

But at the same time, she can’t just abandon Impa. “No, it’s nothing,” Lost stammers, but Impa shakes her head.

“It’s not nothing,” Impa insists, “everyone living in Hyrule from Hateno to Lanayru knows what you want to do, considering you’re talking about it all the time.”

“I do  _ not _ talk about it all the time. Only half!”

“Fine, only half,” Impa rolls her eyes, “but I know you want to restart the trade routes. I know the danger. And I hate it, but you of all people know how low on resources we are. We need those trade routes up and running.”

Somehow, improbably, a spark of hope lights itself up in her chest.

“You’re not going to go to Zora’s Domain until we at least get you combat ready,” Impa says. And yeah—Lost can get behind that. “You and that other girl.”

“Thank you, thank you,  _ thank you,” _ Lost babbles. She squeezes Impa extra tight. “I know you’re scared so  _ thank you,” _ she repeats.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Impa says, raising a careful eyebrow. “Now, what’s this I hear about you picking up a kid?”

Lost groans. “It’s… a long story.”

//

Here’s the deal: Lost knows Impa doesn’t joke around, but she didn’t realize she was being truly serious about combat training until her face is introduced to the ground. Again. “Up,” Impa commands, wooden sword digging into Lost’s shoulder. She groans.

“Alright, alright,” Lost says, except because her mouth is full of dirt, it comes out more like a “alrughdubfu”. She spits out the mud and the sweat and rises to her feet once more, fingers clenched around the pommel. “I think I can go again,” because Lost can, and she’s not complaining about getting trained by one of Hyrule’s best warriors.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” she nods, and then proceeds to shriek as she jumps over the incoming strike. Lost doesn’t complain, though, because honor doesn’t really matter when you’re fighting monsters, and nobody is going to take it easy on her.

Impa cackles. “Learning, I take it?” Because Lost has a handful of bruises on her shin from Impa’s stupid wooden sword.

Lost huffs. “Yeah, I am,” she says, and then she darts in, trying to go for the offensive. Her body takes over—when the sword moves, so does she, following its balance. It’s something she wouldn’t have done a week ago, but she does so now. She tries to go for a temple strike. Impa blocks it, so Lost sucks in a breath between clenched teeth and goes low.

_ Thunk! _ Impa’s sword blocks it. “You’ll have to do better than that, little  _ vehvi,” _ she says, and Lost gives a snarl of frustration.  _ Vehvi _ is a nickname for home, not the battlefield. She hasn’t been called  _ vehvi _ in years, anyways, after Aunt Lon and Link passed away.

Her moment of frustration costs her the battle. Impa strikes her ankle and Lost yelps, dropping her sword to hold it. “I know you go for everything and that’s fair but I need to walk, seriously, Impa, what the heck?”

“Take a break, then,” Impa advises, ever so helpfully. “Besides, it’s Kid’s turn,” and Scope perks up from where she’s weaving flower crowns.

“My turn!” she says, shrugging off the outer layer of the Sheikah garb that she’s wearing today. “My turn, my turn,” she sings, picking up Lost’s fallen wooden sword and falling into a ready position.

Impa nods. “Remember, just because you’re a kid doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you,” she says, and Scope gives a determined nod.

“Ready!”

They meet in a clash. Lost looks upward to the blue sky and just rolls her eyes. It’s become evident that Scope’s the better swordsman (somehow) even if Lost can lift more, but Lost is better with a bow and arrow in her hands. (“Just like Link,” Impa says affectionately, eyes lost in memories. Lost isn’t sure what to make of that.)

That’s what their days are like, now, and Lost is beginning to get antsy. She wonders when Impa will permit them to go to Zora’s Domain. But she can wait. She’s patient, like that.

Absentmindedly, her hands drift to the book she always carries with her. It’s the family recipe book. Sometimes, she thinks it’s older than time itself; there’s recipes in there where the ingredients have since then gone extinct and substitutions and replacements for that. 

The last pages written in there are penned by Aunt Lon and her brother. It’s her most prized possession, right after her headband. Carefully, her fingers brush over the worn cover.

No, not yet, she decides, and puts it back. One day, she’ll be ready to let it go.

Today is not that day.

//

Impa declares them ready, one day, in the middle of breakfast. “I think you’re ready to go to Zora’s Domain,” she says. “I’ve had Darin pack your bags. You’ll leave at noon, when the sun is still out. Be  _ careful,” _ and the look she directs to the both of them leaves Scope flushing a bright red.

“I am  _ always _ careful,” she says. Scope shakes her head.

“Nuh _uh,”_ she says, “one time I saw you eat a bug because you were bored, and then you immediately spat it out because it was poisonous.”

“It was gross  _ and _ poisonous!” Lost protests, and this feels domestic even though they’re about to go on the journey of a lifetime. And somehow, she’s okay with that.

Impa sighs. “Just like that.”

//

Come noon, Lost and Scope are on the road to Lanayru. She’s got her sword tucked into its sheath, but this time, there’s a bow and quiver slung on her back too. Scope also has a sword—sized just for her, although, according to Scope, it “doesn’t feel right”.

“It’s not like home,” she admits. Lost takes note of that—maybe they’ll find a trader who has a sword fit for Scope.

She shoulders her travel sack onto her shoulders, feeling the weight of Dento’s medicine against her back, and turns to Scope. “Ready?”

“Yup,” Scope says. “And Impa gave me a bunch of flowers, so I can make more flower crowns on the road, see?” She waves the chain of blue nightshades around in her hands. Lost is sure she even sees a swift violet there, too.

“I guess she did, huh.”

They walk down the path, leaving Kakariko village. Lost doesn’t take out the map just yet, not until they reach the marshlands. (Where she almost died.) “Be careful, Scope.”

“I always am,” she promises. Then, “I think that’s a monster up ahead.”

There does happen to be a monster up ahead. It’s a lizalfos, and Lost is suddenly reminded of the circumstances which lead to where she is right now. But this time, she’s ready. She takes her bow off from where it’s belted, pulls out an arrow from her quiver and nocks it. Draws it back, steady and true. 

It’d be a Sheikah’s draw, and it is from the waist down—but Lost grew up mimicking her brother, and her brother mimicked the Zora, so her wrist juts out at a weird angle like she’s accounting for a body part that’s not there. The Zora do have to shoot around their fin, after all.

She sucks in a harsh breath between her teeth, and it sounds like a whistle. The lizalfos turns. Lost lets the arrow fly, and it strikes true right between the monster’s eyes, and it drops dead.

“You did it!” Scope cheers, and Lost watches the monster crumble to purple smoke.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” she says, and somehow, improbably, a spark of hope lights itself up in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casually slaps down a reference to part gerudo wild & lost. also, two heroes references? two heroes reference.


	3. siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aryll talks economics, and doesn’t talk about feelings.

Lanayru’s Wetlands are humid and moist and sticky. And disgusting. And exhausting to travel through. It also introduces Scope to the existence of some of the most miserable, disgusting creatures on earth: _mosquitoes._

Lost smacks Scope’s arm, who groans, itching her ears. “This sucks,” she says, “I hate this.”

“Me too,” Lost agrees, sympathetic. At least Inogo bridge is up ahead soon, and then it’s Lizalfos country, but they’re pretty prepared for that. “We’ll be past the worst of it soon.”

“I hope so,” Scope grumbles, and then pauses at the sound of splashing. Loud splashing. They’re in Lanayru Wetland and the only things alive splashing should be them and the occasional lizalfos—

Lost tackles Scope into the marsh. “Not a word,” she breathes, curls her body around Scope like a shield because by Hylia, she promised Grandma, didn’t she? 

“Lost, what—“

The mechanical whirring silences them both, a _beep beep_ as the guardian prowls the area. One, two—Lost counts the beats in between each splash of the Guardian’s legs into the marsh.

They stay like that, breathing, heart in their throats, until the guardian moves past them. Then Lost pulls Scope up by the hand and books it.

She wonders if this is how her brother felt, staring death in the face and protecting the girl behind him. She decides she doesn’t want to know.

//

They reach Inogo bridge with a sigh of relief, and then Scope turns to Lost. “What was that,” she asks, half curious, half strangled with emotion.

“My brother’s killer” is probably not a socially acceptable answer, so Lost says instead, “Old Sheikah tech that went corrupt with the Calamity.”

Scope frowns. “That sucks,” she says, and Lost gives a dry laugh.

“I guess it does,” she says. _I guess it does._

There’s a sort of hilarity to it, that the Calamity can be summed up in two simple words. _That sucks._

Lost kind of likes it.

//

It’s a long trip, and the path is full of monsters. Lost gains a new cut on her neck, too close to death for comfort; Scope has a nasty bruise on her cheek and a black eye. When they get to Luto’s crossing, though, Lost grins, shaking some twigs out of her hair.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” she says, triumphant, because usually Lost pulls three all-nighters to get across but Scope needs sleep. And frankly, she’s taken down the most lizalfos without flinching that Lost has ever seen since the Calamity. “It’s safe—the monsters hate the glow Luminous Stone gives,” she offers.

Scope groans. “Finallyyyyy,” she says, drawing it out. Her pack falls to the ground with a heavy _thump._ Both of them wince at the thud it makes and the mud that splashes from it. “Why are we even going to the Zora’s Domain? What are Zora, even?” Her questions are not complaints, so Lost feels like they’re justified.

“First of all, _who_ are the Zora,” Lost corrects gently, “and they’re a race in my Hyrule. I guess they don’t exist in yours.” Which, for the record, is a mind boggling thought—and not _just_ the idea that Sidon and Mipha wouldn’t exist, but also that there’s different Hyrules at all. “And we’re going to Zora’s Domain to help set up trade.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they need trade,” Lost says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because trade gets businesses up and running,” she recites. An old Gerudo mantra.

Scope hums. Her fingers dig for Lost’s flint and she strikes it against the driest piece of wood she can find, because as they head to Zora’s Domain the conditions are really only getting more, well, wet. Soon, they have a nice fire going in front of them. She pauses. “But—why do you need trade now?”

Lost hesitates. “Well,” she says, “it started with the Calamity. Or what came after.” She settles down near the fire and pats for Scope to join her. She does, and Lost ends up finding some half broken biscuits to share for dinner. “When Calamity Ganon came, the old sheikah tech—the guardians—destroyed a lot of things.”

Almost wistfully, Lost’s fingers go to her headband, feeling the folds of the scarf. If Scope notices she’s a little somber as she does it, she doesn’t say anything.

“One of those things—was, well, Zora’s Domain,” she gestures. “When Ganon came, so did the monsters and the Guardians. A lot of people died. We thought we were prepared, too,” and everything feels bitter on Lost’s tongue, but she continues, “but I guess not.”

She wipes her eyes. “But anyways—um, against Calamity Ganon, we'd had these five champions. One of them was Princess Mipha of the Zora.” _Another was my brother,_ is what she doesn’t say. She continues. “When the Calamity came, she went to her Divine Beast—the pinnacle of the old Sheikah tech that was found, but those got corrupted too.

"So then Princess Mipha died," Lost explains, "and a lot of Zora's Domain got destroyed."

Scope nods, taking it in. "So why is trade necessary, again?"

Lost knits her eyebrows together. "Because," she says, then pauses to think. _Why is trade important?_ "Because there's a lot of areas more rich in Luminous Stone, which is what Zora's Domain needs to rebuild its archite _xtureee."_ The word slurs in her mouth.

"Architecture," Scope gently corrects. Lost nods.

"Yeah, that," she says. Absentminded, she bites into the biscuit. The flames have softened it, made it warmer until it almost tastes like it just came out of the oven. “The problem is, after the Calamity, there was so much damage and danger everywhere that the trade routes fell out of use. And once they did, they got really, really dangerous to cross, so nowadays, everyone just stays put.” 

Lost shrugs. Continues on her tangent, saying, “Which is bad, because nobody’s willing to go out to get supplies that they need. Kakariko’s rice crops are failing because they’ve got no variety in their agriculture, and all their soil’s got the proper nutrients sucked outta them because they don’t have the right ones to plant that will replace them.”

This is the stuff Aunt Lon taught her—farmer’s work and gardener’s work, because even if Lost couldn’t touch the stove without burning down the house, she’s got a knack for getting the garden to grow underneath her careful hand. So Aunt Lon had taken her out to the garden, one day, pointed at a crop of barley, and said _There. I’ll teach you there._

Scope nods, a textbook definition of what a good student must be. “And you think the Zora can do that?”

“Lanayru does,” Lost says confidently. “There’s a lot of plants native to Lanayru that will be good for Kakariko’s soil.”

“Okay,” Scope finally says, nodding. “Okay, I believe in you. When will we get there?”

Lost nearly laughs. “Tomorrow, I think,” she says, and Scope beams.

“Good,” she says, and then stuffs her own biscuit whole into her mouth.

//

  
  


Per her promise, they do make it to Zora’s Domain that next day, after the long trek over Luto’s Crossing and a madash past an electric wizzrobe. No. They are not doing that, not in a million years.

When they reach the entrance of Zora’s bridge, Scope stands in awe, small and breathless and wondrous. “Wow,” she says.

“Wow,” Lost agrees, because Zora’s Domain is surely a sight for sore eyes. Then, perhaps because she’s so tired, her knees knock together and she falls down onto the ground, shins and knees and what-else hitting the smooth paved stone of the bridge.

Or maybe that’s just the wave of grief that eclipses her. The sudden rush of _this is my Brother’s childhood home in a way_ and _this is_ my _childhood home in a way too_ hits her. Scope gives a yelp, before she’s reaching for Lost—

“I’m fine,” Lost says, getting back up. “I—sorry. We can go now.”

So they do. The walk across the bridge takes about ten minutes to cross in addition to the water which pools om it, but halfway through Scope slaps her on the back and darts across. So they’re playing a game of tag, she supposed, and then runs off after Scope.

It ends up with them face to face with a Zora guard, who then lowers his spear. “Seggin,” Lost begins with, face flushed red, “I have Dento’s medicine. And I’m not dead. I guess there’s that too,” she adds, as an afterthought.

Seggin, who’s young and bitter and angry, gives Lost this flat eyed look. “Kids,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. She’s half tempted to point out he’s not so far from that himself by Zora standards. He jerks his head to behind him. “Go on.”

Lost beams. “Thank you, Sir Seggin.”

“Don’t forget your talk to your friend,” he says, almost contemptuous if not for the fact that there’s a small tug at his lips upward. Scope nods, frantic.

“We won’t! Come _on,_ Lost,” she says, and then they run into Zora’s Domain.

Lost finds Dento fairly quickly—stooped over in pain, wife and kids worrying around him in the pools. She digs into her pack. “Hi, Dento,” she starts off with, “Sorry I’m late. Here’s the medicine.”

It’s hastily put together, Lost will admit. Roadside remedies in the wake of a lack of proper medical assistance. It’s all anyone’s got, nowadays. Still, Dento thanks her, and his family wails their gratitude. Which is supremely uncomfortable, but whatever.

Lost leaves the pools, steps back into the main plaza, and comes face to face with two toddlers. Two suspiciously huddled toddlers who are beaming like the sun. Two toddlers named Scope and—

_“Sidon,”_ Lost breathes, and Sidon gives the toothiest smile she’s ever seen before she gets tackled with a hug.

“I MISSED YOU,” he shouts, “HOW ARE YOU ARYLL? I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE, MY BESTEST FRIEND!”

Scope laughs at Lost’s predicament. Rude. She grins, anyway.

//

For how tiny Sidon is, the Zora prince weighs pretty heavily on her, so it doesn’t take long before Lost is gasping _get off me Sidon what have you been eating lately_ and nobody helps her. Ugh. Fortunately, Sidon is also very cognizant of boundaries, which is nice.

“I missed you,” he very quietly admits. He’s got one of her hands in a crushing grip, and the other is gesturing wildly about something to Scope. Clearly, he’ll grow up to be a man of many talents. “I thought you, um. Died.”

“It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me,” she reassures. She looks at the throne room, and the weight of her bag that Impa gave her feels heavy on her back. “But. I have to go talk to King Dorephan, okay, Sidon? Impa gave me a missive—a trade thingy, I think,” because Lost isn’t quite sure what to call those things even if getting the world on its feet is her passion.

“Trade agreement,” Sidon suggests. He’s a prince, so he knows these things. Wow, all of Lost’s friends are scarily smart.

“Trade agreement,” she says, and then she heaves herself off the ground to head to the throne room. Her boots skate across the rain-slick tile of Zora’s Domain as she heads for the stairs. Divine Beast Vah Ruta still storms even a year after the Calamity.

It’s disheartening, but Lost has never been shy of the rain.

The guards in front of King Dorephan’s throne room position themselves in front of the throne room. They know Lost won’t hurt them—she sees it in their eyes, soft and relieved at her apparent being alive. Duty calls, though.

Lost digs into her bag, mindful of the rain—finally, her fingers grab Impa’s missive, and she presents it with a small flourish. “I bear a message for the King, from those who dwell in the shadows.”

They part for her. Lost walks in, dripping wet and maybe cold, and thinks about that fireside conversation with Scope.

“King Dorephan,” she greets with a low bow. Beside the towering Zora king, his old advisor Muzu snarls. Once, she remembers Mipha making Muzu’s beady eyes light up in delight, and thinks of how bitter he’s become.

She knows him, because she is him. She wonders how proud her brother and Mipha would be of them now.

“Aryll,” the king rumbles, delighted if somber, “how glad I am to see you.”

“As am I,” Lost says. She’s never been suited for diplomacy, or talking fancy, or using big words like everyone else seems to have a grasp on. But Lost has a duty, and duty calls. “I come bearing a message from the leader of those who dwell in the shadows. The leader of the Sheikah, Impa, has a message for you.”

He leans forward. “Let us hear it, then.”

Lost reads over the contents of the letter. She trips over some words more often than she likes, but she guesses learning how to read much later than everyone else your age will do that to you.

“My liege,” Muzu says once she’s done. King Dorephan leans back in his throne, wise, old eyes cloudy in thought. And maybe age. 

“I will think over it,” he rumbles, and that’s all there is to it. “Now, then, onto less diplomatic matters—it is good to hear of your health. Sidon was dearly upset when the news of your disappearance hit, and I will admit, I was too.”

Maybe there’s something that bonds them together. A shared grief, perhaps, Lost thinks, of a brother, a daughter, who was taken too soon from them. Maybe that’s why the loss of anyone else hurts so much more now, because no one can afford to lose anyone now.

“It’ll take a lot more to knock me down,” Lost says again, and King Dorephan throws his head back and gives a mighty laugh.

“I’m sure of it,” he says, and the corners of his eyes crease in laugh lines centuries old. “I’m also sure you are tired—I hear you have brought a guest? She is welcome too, in Zora’s Domain.”

All the while, Muzu has been staring beady eyed at their conversation. Now, he opens his mouth, ready to probably jab at Scope.

“Before you say anything, Mr. Muzu,” Lost says, “my friend is nine. Ten, maybe. Please, she's none of your concern.”

He snaps his jaw shut, and Lost gives a little shrug. It’s almost elegant, but she’s never quite perfected it like her brother did, only just a pale mockery of it. She grins, and turns to King Dorephan. “Thank you, your liege,” she says, even if she’s Hylian and her princess is in another castle. He deserves the respect. “I think my friend and I will go rest, now. And maybe get some energy out of your son.”

“Perhaps you will,” King Dorephan agrees with a twinkle in his eyes. “He has been getting quite restless in his lessons lately.” Then, quieter, like he’d forgotten that Lost and Muzu were still with him, he says, “I know he wants my attention, but it’s hard to give it to him, when I am as I am.”

Muzu gives Lost a look. She shouldn’t be here for this, when the King gets like this in his grief. She doesn’t want to be here when he gets like that, too. She gives a curt nod, and then skedaddles out of there.

//

They play for the rest of the day, before Scope gets tired inevitably and heads over to Seabed Inn for their paid rooms. Lost stays with Sidon to watch the stars. They’re sitting on the balcony that sits over the Ne’ez Yohma shrine which the domain is built around (one time, when she had been visiting with her family, Brother had read the Sheikah inscription which indicates its name—she remembers how confident he was, how he didn’t stutter when he said it).

Lost is pointing to the Goddess’s Lyre constellation when Sidon speaks. “They say they’re gonna build a statue in the center of the domain,” he says.

She pauses. For all of his toddler tendencies, Sidon sounds so very bitter and sad right now. “What?”

“Father and all of the soldiers would like to build a statue of Mipha. In—in the center of the plaza,” he continues. “Construction will be starting soon, once the sculptor finalizes the design.”

Suddenly, Sidon hiccups. Then, he’s crying. “I miss her,” he says when Lost wraps her arms around him. “I miss her and I hate her,” he confesses.

“Don’t say that,” Lost says, muffled. Guilt pools in her stomach. She’s a hypocrite.

“I don’t even remember her all that well, and she’s all anyone talks about, Mipha this and Mipha that and nobody asks me or tells me _anything!_ And they’re going to build a statue of her because we love her, and— _and,”_ he dries his tears. His eyes are still shiny with them. “I just miss her.”

“I do, too.” She’s not talking about Mipha.

They’re quiet, for a while, before Sidon points out Lord Jabu Jabu’s constellation. At some point, Sidon finally has to go to bed and is escorted to his sleeping pools. He says goodnight, and tells her she should go get some rest too, and then walks down the stairs, back straight, head fin ridiculous against his so very small frame.

Lost stays on the balcony, looking at where they’re planning to build a statue of Mipha. Divine Beast Vah Ruta is still storming, raining down on the Domain. She wonders if Mipha regrets her decision to leave her family behind. Lost stares at the spot, wondering what the sculptor will build her as, graceful or fierce or in between. All anyone knows is that it will be a memorial for a champion who’s still loved, even after she’s passed.

She stays there for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that i’m writing about crop rotation and economics and worldbuilding about a nonexistent npc indicates a lot about me. but here, take baby sidon!


	4. interlude: the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link and Zelda have a wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 5/6/20: Hey guys :) Mochi here! Just wanted to tell you all that Aryllverse is going to take a little hiatus--there's a lot I want to accomplish with this fic, and I'm taking some time off to ensure I deliver the things I want to. Know that this fic is _not_ going to be abandoned as long as I'm in the LU/LOZ fandom.

The Wolf is a constant companion. Link knows this, because the Wolf has stuck by his side for his entire adventure, the moment when he first had fought off the bokoblins and tended to the Wolf’s injured leg. Ever since, he trotted after him, a constant and comforting presence.

He is still here, even when Link’s adventure has ended, when Princess Zelda has been freed and now lives in the wild.

Some days, Link wishes he could thank the Wolf, but it’s always been hard for him to speak—his voice is weak with disuse, and Impa tells him that in his youth, he’d suffered from an illness which nearly killed him were it not for his mother. So he’s fairly sure that constitutes as a good enough excuse as to not speak. Still, it does irk him. 

In lieu of words or even signs, Link leaves constant brushes of his fingers against the Wolf’s fur. Makes the Wolf’s favorite pumpkin stew dish nigh constant, to the point where the recipe is logged in his Sheikah slate. Well. He’ll call it logged, but according to most travelers he meets, it’s not so much logged as it is a language no one can read.

(Impa tells him, later, that it is in Sheikah. And that apparently, Link has the unfortunate habit of tripping his words up into about six different languages, mixing up the conjugation, adding an auxiliary when it’s _not even necessary,_ and even still manage to speak a nearly dead Lanayru dialect of Hylian Common.

It’s tricky.)

Today, Link decides, he’ll take care of his house. Bolson and Karson loiter on the front lawn. He doesn’t mind, really—they’re nice folk, and they’re harmless. The Wolf nips at his heels as Link fetches the broom and sweeps the floor of the house. Even still, Zelda sleeps upstairs. But she deserves it. She’s been working so hard, after all, reinstating the kingdom and the royal family. And fighting off Ganon.

He doesn’t quite realize he’s been humming a song from a memory he doesn’t quite remember until the Wolf barks at him. Link blinks, then gives a little laugh. The Wolf’s tongue lolls out of his mouth.

Zelda’s voice comes from upstairs. He guesses she’s not as asleep as he thought she was. “Is Wolfie being silly again?” she asks, voice still sleep-slurred.

“Yes,” Link says, bemused. The Wolf nudges at his ankles toward the direction of the kitchen. _Looks like someone’s hungry,_ he thinks. He sets the broom against the wall. Today, he thinks, he’ll make something like Wildberry Crepes.

Yes, Wildberry Crepes sounds good.

//

Zelda goes back to bed after eating her share. She’s been sleeping a lot; Link wonders if it’s a byproduct of fighting Ganon for 100 years or if it’s something he really should be worried about. The Wolf, too, has gone back to his slumber. He sleeps at the foot of the bed.

Link can’t do that—can’t go back to bed, can’t sleep when there is still so much of the world to _see._ And, perhaps, he does have issues with sleeping and wasting away in the grasp of darkness, but. Well. It’s better, now, enclosed in the safety of this home, where the sounds of chirping cicadas at night lull him to sleep as Sunset Fireflies dance around his head. The sun has only just peeked over the horizon, casting the fields of Hateno in its light.

The fields are growing back, he notices. The Age of Burning Fields that Uma talks about left scars so deep in the earth that there are still ruins evident of it. It’s the wild, Link thinks, that life can still grow back even from death.

He can hear, in the distance, the village children shrieking with laughter. Link pulls up his boots and changes his night clothes for a simple tunic, pants, and a white cloth to tie his hair back; he grabs the broom and a woven basket, and steps into the sunlight. The morning birds chirp. 

He goes to the back, drops the broom and tucks the basket under his arm, and leaps onto the great apple tree. His feet find familiar grooves as he climbs up its surface. He reaches out— _there,_ he thinks, _that’s the one I will pick out_ —and tugs at the apple stem until it sits in his hand, sun ripe. He picks another. And another. He doesn’t stop until he’s enough for the village children and then some; he’s sure Ivee will like them.

He drops back to the ground. The apples sit in the basket, sun ripe and glistening red like rubies, of pretty girls’ lips and zora scales. He picks the broom back up and heads to the front yard to finish up his work, sweeping it clean of little pebbles and what not.

The sun rises higher, and a cool morning breeze sweeps through Hateno, blowing chilly kisses onto his nose and the back of his neck. Link gives a little soft laugh when he hears some of the children shriek down below.

He thinks he could get used to mornings like these—sweeping yards, cooking Zelda breakfast, picking apples for the neighbors. Yes. This is a life he could get used to, just as much as shield surfing and dancing with swords.

 _Swish._ The bristles brush over the grass. (He does not know it, but there is magic, in this, how Link dances across the grass and breathes in the wild. And everyone who watches him is enthralled.) He’s so caught up, though, that he doesn’t hear the soft _creak_ of the wooden bridge until someone clears their throat.

“Excuse me,” they say. Link turns around, face to face with a band of seven men. The one who just spoke, curiously enough, has markings on his face and a scar which tracks down one of his eyes. “We were told this was the house of the hero. Do you know where he is?”

Link grips the handle of the broom, now, tighter. Taut. Pressed lips.

Then Bolson calls, “Darling, Wolfie’s asking for you, dear!” and the Wolf trots out of Link’s house, tongue lolling, completely at ease with the presence of these seven strange men on Link’s doorstep. Someone gasps. Link sighs and relaxes his grip. If the Wolf trusts them, then he will too.

“That,” he says, and then presses a hand to his throat to keep it from giving out and coughing, “would be me.”

He hopes Zelda is up now, at least. It would be sorely embarrassing for both of them if she wasn’t.

//

This is what the men tell him: that they are also heroes, that their name is Link and they are the heroes chosen by Hylia. At her name, Link gives a sigh. The Deserter, he guesses, wasn’t one after all—only just cruel enough to put someone else in her place.

One of them asks him for his name. _Link,_ he signs in lieu of his frankly abysmal throat. A couple of them blink. A couple of them laugh. The Wolf has taken to nipping at his and the scarred man’s heels.

The man with the cape blinks, then laughs. “No,” he says, “I should have specified that. I mean your hero name,” he says, “like how I’m called Sky, after being the hero of Skyloft.”

Somehow, Link gets the impression that there is more to his title than just that—but this one is a chosen one, not one given, and for that it carries all the more weight. He thinks of his own titles—what Zelda called him, what the Sword has whispered to him. The Hero of the Wild.

 _Wild,_ he signs. _Call me Wild._

Sky blinks. “Wild it is,” he agrees and smiles. Link, or Wild, responds in kind, and leans down to pet the Wolf; he gives a small huff but lets him anyway. Just him, though, and the village children.

But with that out of the way, Wild begins to hear whispering. One of the men leans to his companion and says, not quietly, “How will we tell him?”

The other one—Legend, he’d introduced himself as—elbows him, and says, “Hush,” but it’s too late. Wild furrows his eyebrows together.

“What do you mean?”

There’s a sudden quiet. A hush, even. Then, from the one who said his name was Four, “Um… the thing is, we’re not here just by whim.”

Wild steps back, away from the men, to his home, ever so slightly. The Wolf nudges at his heels. Briefly, he wonders why the Wolf is still at his side. “Explain.”

The Hero of Time sighs, and then says, “Hylia needs us to go on another adventure, to stop another evil.”

Wild pauses. The wind blows through the yard, the sun is warm on the back of his neck. Behind him, there’s a home full of memories and a girl who’s waged a war for one hundred years and won it. And there is the Wolf, who is familiar with this. The Wolf who Zelda says is a man, who turns into one when he thinks no one is looking, who has stayed by Wild’s side since he’s first found him.

He leans down, grasps the apple basket with his hands, and shoves past the band of men. The Wolf does not follow him, and Wild does not mind. The path is well worn, and he reaches the village, and no one has followed him and for that he’s glad.

When the village children positively giggle with laughter when he hands them those apples, sun ripe and ruby red, Wild knows this: he will not go on another adventure.

//

He is avoiding his house.

Or, rather, Link is running errands beyond his house, all across Hateno. It’s a fairly large settlement. He could probably avoid them. So he does—Link hikes around the village, beats up some bokoblins in the forest, drops off random bits and pieces of potential dyes to Sayge because Farore knows he's in love with his job. By the time he's done everything he can think of, it's the afternoon, and the clouds overhead have gathered together.

It begins to rain. The torches around Hateno flicker and sputter out, and everyone runs to their house or under some shelter. Wild helps Old Lady Uma out of the chair she perches on underneath the awning and strikes a fire—the rain might bring an unpleasant chill to her, at least, even though to Wild it tastes like summer freedom.

Old Lady Uma laughs. Her voice croaks and dips from her old age, but the village children adore her and so does he; maybe it's because of how her white hair spins like golden wheat in the sunlight, how she'd stay out in the rain if it weren't agitating her joints, or how she joins the village dances even if she's the odd one out.

"Thank you, dearie."

"You're welcome," he says, and then, because he can, he pulls out Goat Butter from his Sheikah Slate and begins to grease up the cooking pot. Just some Hot Buttered Apples would be nice, he thinks, and the steam from the fire curls around his face, makes the ends of his long hair wavy.

"Did I ever tell you I was born on a day like this?"

Wild stops to look at Old Lady Uma. She's looking up, now, at the sky, a small smile on her face. "I don't think you have."

"That's right—I told dear Ivee, I guess. You'll have to forgive me—old age, I suppose," she hums. Wild nods dutifully, and eyes the butter sizzling on the surface of the cooking pot, fire-slick. Uma closes her eyes, "Yes," she says, "I guess I did."

She sounds floaty, like she's in another time. "As my mam used to tell me, it was on a rainy day. A lot harsher, I do believe. In Hateno, in your house, even," she laughs, and Wild nearly has whiplash. _What?_ Uma laughs. "Yes, your house, the big one on that hill—the family that lived in there before the Calamity, their daughter, the only survivor, turned it into a safe house."

Wild tries to keep his fingers from shaking as he peels and cuts apples. Zelda had told him that his house had been familiar, somehow; he'd never thought that Old Lady Uma would have knowledge of it. "That's interesting," he says.

Uma laughs. It's a throaty thing, and Wild thinks it sounds beautiful. "Interesting, now that's a way to put it! Mam says she'd'a nearly have died were it not for their daughter." She quiets, now. "I was born in the Age of Burning Fields, I told you that, haven't I? Yes, and Hateno, even untouched by the Calamity, was a dangerous place at that time." She closes her eyes, thinking. "So my mam wasn't in the best shape delivering me. But that girl..."

He tosses the apples into the cooking pot, watching them sizzle in the butter, smelling sweet. ( _Wait for them to brown, at least,_ he remembers. And _they're perfectly fine because you made them, so I know they will be!)_

Finally, Uma's voice, light, says, "She birthed me. Don't know she did it—I think my mam said she was shoutin' at her poor friend she'd there, and there was a lot of crying, but then I was born. Did you know the fields were on fire? When I was born, it was a rainy day, and Mam used to joke that my birth was a blessing from the goddesses."

Wild hums. "Thank you, Ms. Uma," he says, because Old Lady Uma never got married. Uma smiles.

"You're welcome, Sonny."

"I made Hot Buttered Apples, if you'd like any."

"I would," Uma says, and Wild ladles two servings. They sit there, eating the syrupy sweetness with their fingers, and she laughs. "I do wonder if that girl was scared," she says, "but Mam told me she'd this look in her eyes, that even though she didn't know or like what she was doing that someone would have to do it, and she decided it'd be her."

Wild puts down his plate, settling it on his lap. It hits a little too close to home, right now. "Do you know what her name was?" he says, honest.

Uma frowns, eyes cloudy with old age. "I don't think so," she says, finally.

The clouds begin to part.

//

It's only sunset when the Ta'loh Naeg shrine lights up, ancient and a startling blue, and Wild appears before paragliding down to the village. He hears Cottla shout, "It's _Mr. Link!"_ and the villagers who are still out begin to chit chat.

Wild lands on the ground with a soft tap. The conversation has put him in a weird mood, but he did promise the Wolf a pumpkin stew or something else, which leads him up the familiar path to Olkin's pumpkin patch, except then Steen stops him, and before he knows it he's in Steen's wife's shop. Trissa gives a faint laugh when Wild shows up, bedraggled and bewildered.

"What even just _happened,"_ he says, almost desperately, and Trissa coughs politely to cover her laughter before she speaks.

"Welcome to the shop," she says. "I think my husband dragged you here to check out our lovely carrots," and Trissa gives an exaggerated wink there. Wild groans. Of course, leave it to Steen to get jealous of Wild buying so many damn pumpkins from Olkin because of the Wolf.

Whatever. He might as well, anyway, because for all Steen and Olkin puff their chests, they do actually make some really good crops. "Alright, then," he says, rolling his eyes lightly, and shuffles over to the carrot basket to see which ones are the best.

Trissa says over the counter, "He wants you here because he's really proud of his swift carrots, you know that, Link."

"I do already know that," he sighs, and takes three. "Is this alright?"

"48 rupees," she replies lightly. "To make these swift carrots, it was hard work. Really," she adds at Wild's disbelieving look. "The reason Kakariko's the only place to grow Swift Carrots is because they're not natural. Steen's family bred them after the Calamity."

Apparently, today is the day everyone tells him their life stories. Wild's fine with that—it's Hyrule, after all, and what's a place without any people? "Go on," he says, and Trissa laughs as she bundles up his carrots as Wild fishes for the rupees.

"See, Lady Impa struck up a trade deal with the Zora, and though you won't find them now, amongst the first items to be traded were these curious little fruits—fleet lotus seeds." Wild nods—he always has a couple on hand, whenever he cooks on the go, because those suckers make you run _fast._ "Now, Steen's family looked at these little fruits and tried to crossbreed them with our carrots, and now we're the proud owner of our little farm."

She beams. "48 rupees, please," and Wild rolls his eyes fondly as he drops two red rupees, one blue, and three green. Turns and leaves to finally go get a pumpkin for the Wolf. "Have fun!" Trissa calls, laughing slightly.

//

He comes back to his house.

Which is, well, to say that he's made his decision—he thinks about the stories of Hyrule, of Zelda, who fought Ganon 100 years for this land, of _him,_ who fought _death_ for 100 years for this land. He is not about to run away again.

Pumpkin tucked under his arm, he hikes back up to his house, following the well-worn path and over the rickety bridge until he's met face-to-face with his home again. Gently, he nudges the door open with his hip, and lifts his eyes to see eight people and one wolf.

It's a good thing he's got more than one pumpkin and a lot of ingredients up his sleeve.

"Welcome back," Zelda says, half amused and half irritated that he left her with them. He offers a shrug, and shuffles to the kitchen counter to dump the pumpkin on there.

The little one—Wind—jumps forward. "I'll help," he says, and Wild can't help but laugh a little at that. He reminds Wild so much of a younger sibling it's a little nostalgic.

"It's okay," he says. "I can do it." Then, to Zelda, "It's the Wolf's favorite tonight."

At this, the Wolf perks up; he stretches then rises to his full height and trots over to Wild. The Wolf nudges at his ankles. _Pumpkin stew?_ Wild can imagine the Wolf saying.

"Yes, pumpkin stew," he sighs. The Wolf barks, happy, and the leader—Time—gives an amused look as some of the other men break out into surprised laughter.

Wild cooks a meal. Food brings family together, he remembers someone once saying, and somehow, he can't help but agree. It's hearty, fulfilling, and rich.

At the end of dinner, Zelda offers the men a place to stay here, but they go to the inn instead. Night falls. Wild cleans up around the house and after they’ve both bathed, Flora turns off the lights.

She climbs into bed with him, and they lie like that, legs pressed together as the moonlight spills through the window and onto them. Wild shuts his eyes, then opens them and turns so he's facing Zelda.

She stares up at the ceiling.

"I think I'll go with them," he whispers, almost afraid of the silence. Zelda exhales, and presses her leg against his, turns so her chin rests on top of his head, and plays with his splayed hair.

Wild closes his eyes. She knew he would, because no one else would do it.

"Thank you," he says, and Zelda grumbles.

"Shut up and go to sleep."

Wild gives a little laugh. Yes, sleep sounds good.

//

Come next morning, Wild has packed his bags and left for the inn. There’s a purple portal waiting just out back, and behind him, the Wolf trots, nipping at his heels. The men perk up when they see him. “He’s coming!” Wind calls, young and childlike, and Wild smiles at the familiarity.

A summer breeze blows through Hateno, kissing his neck, and Wild laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i'm terrible at responding to comments, but i promise i do read through them all and each and every one of them make my day. thank you so much for sticking with this, it means the world to me.
> 
> but also, god, this fic makes me go down a total rabbithole of research--so to anyone who's seen me on the discord ranting about _chickaloo legumes_...i am so, _so_ sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> the lu discord absolutely egged me on so here we are


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